


To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

by BlindSwandive



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altars, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Breaking the angel, Chains, Collars, Consensual Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dean Winchester in Hell, Degrading Praise, Double Penetration, Eldritch monstrosities, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incest, Leashes, M/M, Masochist Dean Winchester, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Violence, Old school hellscapes, Public Humiliation, Rough Sex, Sadistic Dean Winchester, Sadistic Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Drinks Demon Blood From Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25143025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Dean was on the rack for thirty years before he picked up the razor; by the time Sam reached him, he was on board for a full-scale takeover of hell.  Then the angels came to raise him from perdition, to take him away from Sam--that's a mistake they no longer bother correcting with anything but blood.Or, Sam, King of Hell, acquires a new pet angel.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 140
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Nonconathon 2020





	To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnOddSock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 共墜地獄之淵](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025456) by [PigeonBlood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PigeonBlood/pseuds/PigeonBlood)



> Happy birthday, Socks!!!!! <3 For the nonconathon prompt: "Either Canonverse with Sam becoming King Of Hell, or a Royalty AU. The best spoils of war, for Sam, is having Cas forever by his side. Forced to serve his new King in every way, often in front of guests, Cas lives in constant humiliation and Sam just loves that colour on him." ...Only this is the Dean POV Wincestiel version. ;) 
> 
> Also for the Banned Together Bingo square "Fuck the Religious Authorities." 
> 
> Please for the love of everything heed the tags. If it is for you, feedback is love. <3

Thirty years.

Time didn't work the same way down here, but every 'day' Alastair had pulled a bone or a tooth or a nail from his body (they grew back, they always grew back, a fresh canvas every day, an endless supply...) and Dean counted them as the collection grew. 

Day by day, the room had filled with bones, with the architecture of a soul on the rack, and when Dean was left alone in the wreckage of trophies, he sorted them slowly into weeks, then into months, then into seasons; from seasons into years, and from years into decades. A year in incisors. A year in mandibles. Five in nothing but finger bones. 10,957 days.

When he closed out the last year of the third decade with a rib, Dean broke. Alastair offered, and he picked up the razor.

He stopped counting, after that.

***

Alastair was coiled around Dean's bones like a vapor while he worked, carving the womb out of a soul again (it grew back, it always grew back, again and again, a fresh canvas...), when he crumbled into ash at the point of a dagger. Dean stopped, crouched, and trailed his fingers through the remains of the demon.

His black eyes lifted and met yellow-gold ones, and Dean sank to his knees in the ash, gripping his brother's body, leaving red handprints over his hip and waist that meant _thank you,_ that meant _finally,_ that meant _mine._ Sam smiled, strange and small, mouth and chin wet with fresh blood.

Dean's mouth was bloody, too, even before Sam stooped to kiss him. So were Sam's hands as they slid into his hair.

***

Hell was vast, but so were they. They took Pandaemonium in a handful of years.

Sam ate more demons on the way than Dean would have guessed existed, but there were always more to bleed.

"Summer's ending," Sam said, soft, as he sat on the throne--his throne--for the first time. Only a few weeks had passed on Earth since he'd come for Dean; no time at all. 

Dean carved out a place to sit and rest beside him on the mound of skulls, laid his machete across his knees, leaned against Sam's shin. _Let 'em come,_ he thought, and waited.

Peaceful.

He didn't miss Earth anymore. He was at Sam's right hand; there was nowhere else he would rather be.

***

When the angels stormed the gates, Dean wanted to laugh. Who knew the feathery bastards existed after all? And he'd been itching for a good melee. But that ended when they tried to take him away from Sam.

That was a mistake Dean no longer bothered correcting with anything but blood.

A few escaped, and most of the rest were overcome by the hordes, but the one that got through--the one that latched onto his shoulder and tried to flee for the sky, burning the print of his hand into Dean's soul-flesh like he had any right, like anyone but Sam had any right--that one was never going home again.

They were going to make sure of that.

Dean knelt on the bastard's chest and held him by the throat while Sam hammered shut the golden collar marked with sigils, trapping him inside of his damaged vessel and muting his power. The angel's bottom lip was split and bleeding; Dean ran a thumb through it, painting a stripe down his chin. Blue eyes twitched side to side in some mute animal panic as they worked.

Dean watched Sam's face while he hammered, expecting righteous anger or the hollow, calm look he seemed to wear so much of the time these days, but there was something different there, some underlying hurt Dean couldn't identify and wanted to fix, needed to fix. And something else, maybe--awe?

A spell fused the seal on the collar and made the sigils glow briefly before fading back into dull etching. The sound the angel made was so raw with indignant fury while he scrabbled at the metal that Dean couldn't help but laugh. They tumbled him into a shallow pit overlaid with a rusted grate and closed him in for safekeeping while they considered their options.

Well. While Sam considered his options. Dean was more or less content to enforce the king's decisions, these days.

He'd always known he was a better soldier than a general. When Sam took the crown, it felt like all the weight of the world had just slipped from his shoulders--like everything had finally slid into place, where it was always meant to be. All he had to do now was follow Sam, protect Sam, fight for Sam. Be Sam's. And Sam was his. In Hell or on Earth, that meant all was right with the world.

But this had Sam bent, and that wasn't okay.

Back in their private space, away from any gawkers, Sam paced back and forth, arms folded tight across his chest, shoulders tense. Dean's spine felt like it was torquing into a spring watching him, like his whole body was screaming _Fix it, fix it, now._

When he couldn't take it anymore, Dean snapped at Sam to spill, to just tell him who he could kill to make it better already.

"I used to pray," was all Sam would say. He looked haunted, but he stared hard at Dean like he was daring him to laugh.

Dean gaped, instead.

He thought of Sam on his knees--Sam, who had always worried he was wrong, who had never felt pure, who their father said Dean might have to kill someday, apparently to prevent from turning into this powerful golden god. He thought of Sam when he was little, kneeling in shitty motels and praying for guidance, for strength, for forgiveness, for punishment, for whatever it was he used to think he needed.

Dean's blood felt too hot for his veins, itching at him, demanding to hurt something.

Then he thought of the angel, dampened and small and trapped in a pit. Here, in Sam's kingdom, under Sam's power--Sam's to do with as he pleased. He could do whatever he needed to do to make it all right, to even out the fucked up score.

He smirked slow and ventured, "Prayers answered?"

Sam stared, eyes flicking back and forth like he was reading Dean like a book. (Dean was pretty sure he was; Dean didn't seem to need to say much these days for Sam to know what he was thinking.) He could tell when Sam got to the good bits, the heavy gloom eventually burning away in favor of a glimmer of sadistic glee. He was pretty sure Sam's eyes were glowing, hard and bright.

"Prayers answered," Sam agreed.

***

The angel dug his fingers into the dirt and tried to fight coming out of the hole. At a glance from Sam, Dean dragged him out by the hair and collar and dropped him unceremoniously at the king's feet.

Sam worked magic now like it was as simple as breathing, as water. Dean didn't see any sigils or hear any chanting, but the slim gold chain he linked to the angel's collar fused with the ring and Dean got the feeling it wouldn't break for anything but Sam's will.

"What's your name, angel?" Sam asked, holding him in place by the collar, strange little smile on his mouth. It was still smeared with demon blood from his latest sacrifice, and Dean imagined biting it, sucking it into his mouth, feeding Sam blood from his own tongue...

The angel jerked against the collar but didn't get far. "I am Castiel. Get your corrupted hands off of me; I am an angel of the Lord."

Dean gave him a solid kick to the ribs for that, but Sam just laughed softly.

"Castiel," Sam repeated, and touched Castiel's cheek tenderly, like some benevolent priest over a penitent, even as the angel tried to pull away to avoid the contact, glaring, teeth bared.

Something tightened low in Dean's gut. Unsettled, but something else, too.

Hungry?

"Welcome to Hell, Castiel," Sam said politely, as though he didn't have the angel on his knees in chains. "But I'm sorry; you're not God's angel anymore."

Castiel opened his mouth to object, but Sam's thumb pressed on his split lip, on the purple line of clotting blood, stopped him before he could start. "No. You are not God's anymore, Castiel," he repeated, like he was talking to a dog or a small child, patient but firm. "Now, you are mine."

***

_Mine._

 _Mine_ swirled around Dean's mind uneasy, hungry and jealous and satisfied all at once. Dean was Sam's and Sam was Dean's; that was the core truth of the universe, the anchor that kept Dean tethered. What was Dean's was Sam's, and most of what was Sam's was Dean's, too, apart from the crown, and even that was still Dean's to defend. But now there was the angel.

He didn't know where that was going to land when the dust was settled.

For now, he watched and he waited.

When Sam climbed to the throne, Dean dragged the angel in, stumbling behind, by the length of gold chain. When Sam sat, Dean handed him the tether, and Sam wrapped it around the arm of the throne and drew it near until Castiel was forced down to his knees beside it, and the chain fused into the gilt like it had been molded from the same.

The assembled demons cackled or catcalled, murmured or jeered, but uneasily. 

Dean had the feeling they hadn't found their footing yet with their new King; he wasn't their usual narcissistic despot with dreams of dominion over the spheres, and it left them off-balance. That more or less worked to their advantage, he supposed. Sam consumed a demon most days, with or without identifiable cause, and no one particularly wanted to be next. Acting out or trying to curry favor by appealing to vanity were equally likely to make you a meal, so Sam was slowly cultivating a more circumspect horde.

A more obedient one.

"This is Castiel," Sam announced cordially. "He was an angel of the Lord. Now he is mine."

Castiel started to protest he was God's or his own or whatever he might have thought, but Sam gripped his jaw, thumb splitting his lip again, and withdrew a tiny golden pen-knife from a pocket. 

While Dean stared, Sam held the angel still with the blade hovering over his right cheekbone, just below the eye. 

Delicate as a surgeon, Sam carved a small sigil into Castiel's skin.

Dean couldn't read the mark, but knew it made clear in blood who the new meat belonged to. Sam licked his thumb clean of the blood from Castiel's lip, and after a moment, bent to kiss the mark he'd made on his cheek.

It was quick as a wink, but Dean didn't miss the way Sam licked his lips of the blood there, too.

He thought again of feeding his brother his own blood. He was a demon now, too, after all. He imagined Sam drinking from him and the angel in turns, swallowing raw power, thought of cutting the angel and himself like a sacrifice to his King.

He didn't say anything, but Sam's eyes came to his, curious and bright.

"You can cut him for me later," Sam murmured, too soft for anyone but Dean and Castiel to hear.

The hunger in Dean's belly swelled and purred.

***

When they were alone, Dean cut open his own wrist without preamble and offered it to Sam's mouth.

"Dean, I--I don't want to hurt you," Sam said, recoiling, and part of Dean was pleased he'd managed to startle his brother. That didn't happen often, anymore.

"Not him without me," was all Dean could manage to say, but he held firm, arm out and dripping.

He pictured the kiss he'd witnessed, the reverent way Sam eyed the full bottom lip on his prey, thought of how Sam had kissed Dean once too, when he set him free. Just once.

Not him _before_ me, he thought.

_Mine._

He thought _Mine, mine, mine,_ like hunger, let it spread through his body like wildfire.

Sam looked stricken, stared at him open-mouthed. There was a long moment of wavering, but he fell on Dean's wrist like a starved thing, drinking him into his body. He drank until Dean was woozy and started to sway on his feet, then licked the wound tender as a kitten until it stopped bleeding, cupping Dean's hand against his face as he did.  
Dean watched him through the haze, didn't realize until Sam had been staring at him for almost a minute that his free hand was in Sam's long hair, cradling his head like it was something precious.

It was. To Dean, it was.

He couldn't put words to it, to that big nebulous thing inside of him; had never been able, might never be able, but he supposed he didn't have to.

Sam nodded. He knew.

Sam bent his bloody mouth to Dean's, kissed him, full of sour and salt and copper, and Dean closed his eyes, felt weightless and full to bursting at the same time. Sam pushed him dizzy against a wall of the red rock that made up most of the surfaces here, ground against him, and they were both hard enough to hurt but Dean clutched him closer anyway. Somehow Sam got their cocks out between them and squeezed them together firm in one big hand, slick with stray blood. It didn't last long, couldn't last long, but when Dean came, Sam licked it up from his palm like manna, looked hungry and feral, swallowed Dean's mouth and kissed him dizzy again. Without even thinking, Dean fell to his knees as soon as the kiss broke, swallowed Sam up to finish him off, hated and loved the salt-sour-sweat and the choke-silk-full and loved it more for hating it.

Sam came in his mouth and Dean looked up into his eyes and swallowed it, like defiance, like an oath.

"You're mine," Sam agreed, wide-eyed, holding his face in wonder, and Dean felt sweet and dark as good whiskey down to his bones.

***

The next day, before the King would hear the litany of appeals and grievances, the angel was tethered to the throne again on his knees.

"Where should the next one go?" Sam asked, producing the pen knife again. Dean was pretty sure it was rhetorical.

Castiel looked ready to spit, full of raw anger.

"I don't want to mess up that face any more," Sam murmured, "but there's not much else I can reach. Little help, Dean?"

Dean grinned.

The trenchcoat and jacket came off with only a little struggle, but when Dean started to work the shirt free of Castiel's belt and pants, he started to fight. "You won't get away with this," he insisted, "the regiment will come back for me--"

Dean rolled his eyes. He jerked the shirt hard enough to pop off the buttons and tear the seams, half throttling Castiel on his collar while he yanked it loose. The choking stopped his litany.

"That's one way to quiet him down," Sam observed, sliding the knot on the tie down until it slipped loose. After a brief glance, he tossed it to an eager but quiet looking demon below; they clutched the favor with bright-eyed fervor.

Sam looked up at Dean significantly, so Dean looked for another likely suspect. A pair of open, beseeching hands got the torn shirt, another the jacket. When the trenchcoat reached the crowd, two demons began to tear at one another for ownership.

"Calm down," Sam said, clear but deceptively calm. "There'll be more pieces soon."

They weren't done, but the chastened demons had the good sense to take the fight for the coat out of view of the throne.

Dean thought Castiel was finally showing some sign of fear, too. About time.

Sam appraised Castiel like an artist with a canvas, and settled for his left shoulder. Carefully, painstakingly, he marked a set of runes descending almost to his bicep, and when he finished, a flick of his eyes told Dean it was his turn to taste. Dean swiped a finger through the tiny beads of blood and sucked it clean.

It felt like licking a battery, electric and tingling. He got the distinct feeling a mouthful could fuck him up in a good way.

He understood why Sam had gone back for more the last time.

"This," Sam explained quietly to Castiel, touching the topmost, "will keep you in this pretty meatsuit even if something were to happen to that collar. This," the next, "will keep any enterprising demons from joining you inside of it. And these--" the last two below, "--will help hide you from anybody who might come looking."

Castiel managed to straighten up slightly to give Sam a defiant look. "It would take a hundred more sigils to hide me from the angels."

Sam smiled faintly. "Yes, it will," he agreed.

***

In a week, Dean thought Castiel was starting to look like a yakuza, or a lore book in some impossible language. Straight, clean lines of runes stretched down both arms to the wrists, covered his collarbone, cut down his sides like seams, ran delicately down his throat to either side of his Adam's apple above and below the collar. Today, Sam had Dean standing on the leash so the angel was bent low, so he could begin lines down either side of his spine.

Every day, now, Castiel struggled more when they pulled him from his pit. Every thrash that made Sam have to lift his instrument made Sam sigh in subtle warning.

"That's starting to get tiring, angel," he said calmly.

"Then stop doing it," Castiel growled.

Dean slid a boot further along the leash, bowing Castiel's face practically into the skulls. "I'm happy to beat him senseless," he offered casually. "Bet he'd hold still if he was unconscious."

That didn't have the intended effect; Castiel bucked and jerked harder against the chain.

Sam flattened his mouth and sighed through his nose, tucking the pen knife away.

"I'm very disappointed, Castiel," he said simply, and Dean felt a bubble of fear and excitement build in his gut. 

_You're gonna get it now, kid,_ he thought with vicious glee.

At Sam's nod, Dean wrapped the leash around the foot of the throne where it fused, leaving the angel bent in a tight bow to the ground. He jerked against the lead frequently, for a while, but Sam let the petitions and queries run long, then longer and longer, hours slipping by, a day, and the fight slowly wore out of him. By the time Sam dismissed the assembly, Castiel only squirmed every so often to shift his knees around the bones.

Dean wound up carrying him over one shoulder, mumbling protests, away from the mound.

Sam didn't lead them to the pit or to his chambers, this time, but through a swirl of dark space that resolved finally into a room of bones with a rack in the center.

Dean swallowed his heart; he knew this room. He knew his bones.

Sam laid a hand on his shoulder, stroked down slow. It might have been meant to be soothing.

"If you can't hold still when I want you to," he explained to the angel, "we can hold you still." A heavy look to set Dean to the too-familiar work. Sam disappeared into the shadows while Dean strapped Castiel face down to the rack, wrists and ankles held at far corners in shackles, with leather straps over his thighs, his waist, his neck, to keep him from getting much play. He was just tightening the last one when Sam reemerged with a yellowed scroll that he rolled out long beside Castiel's mostly still body.

"Want to do the honors?" Sam asked, too close behind Dean's back. He wrapped an arm around Dean's waist, the pen knife and a plain razor offered up in his palm.

Dean couldn't tell if he felt sick or excited. Something lurched and flipped inside. 

His hand trembled only slightly when he took the razor.

Sam pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and stepped away to Castiel's other side with the knife.

For an hour, they worked in tandem, carefully carving sigils down Castiel's back, first framing his spine, then scrolling down in columns to either side. Here, away from the eyes of the demons, under the unrelenting cut-slide-cut, his defiance slipped away in pieces and by the time Sam rolled up the scroll he was gasping and groaning, a beautiful canvas of fine lines and still only the faintest traces of blood.

(Sam's work had the precision of a scholar, but Dean had had time to become an artist with the razor.)

"Awfully pretty," Dean said, then was surprised it had come out of his mouth. 

Sam agreed.

Dean barely realized he was drifting closer, leaning his face in toward his work. He only half knew what he was doing when he looked to Sam for permission and Sam nodded.

He closed his eyes and swiped his tongue from waist to shoulderblade, while the pale flesh twitched and rolled, gathering beads of sweat and blood and pain into his mouth. He didn't think about what he was doing, couldn't, but he did it again and again, even climbed over Castiel's body, straddling his hips and hovering to lick and taste.

He ground himself against Castiel's ass through his pants, suddenly wanting, but Sam drew him away then, a tacet _no, not yet._

"We'll leave him here to think about how well fighting worked out for him," Sam said gently, and took Dean stumbling and numb to their chambers. He let Dean fuck him hard against a wall, there, instead, and promised him his turn with Castiel when the time came.

"I have something special in mind for the first time," he said, panting against the wall, when Dean finished.

Dean scraped his teeth over Sam's shoulder, suddenly just as hungry as when he'd begun. They fucked twice more before whatever passed for morning came.

***

Castiel was glowing pink with fine lines and staggering weak when they unstrapped him from the rack. He half-walked, half-crawled behind Sam, herded by Dean with a boot or dragged by the leash any time he lagged. The shackles were still around his wrists and ankles, now dragging loose and shrieking where they scraped.

Dean gave in and slung the angel over his shoulder when it came time to climb the mound of skulls, depositing him almost gently at Sam's feet.

Together they stripped him of the last of his clothes, and Sam sent Dean out amidst the demons to distribute the pieces. There was warning and promise both in his look, and Dean felt the strange curl of jealousy and hunger together again in his gut, and a powerful burn of curiosity.

Dean was tossing articles of clothing like party favors, but his eyes were trained on the throne. His lip reading was iffy, but he saw Sam drag the half-limp Castiel up almost into his lap and thought he made out, "Have you ever..." whispered in his ear. Thought he saw, "How would you like..." and "first time..." and "right here..."

Terror woke on the angel's face, and Dean's dick gave an interested lurch even as his stomach flipped. 

Of course. The angel would be a virgin.

And Sam was going to take it from him right there, in front of the horde.

One by one, Sam locked the shackles to the throne, Castiel's left ankle lashed beside Sam's left foot, his right by Sam's right, and his wrists each to the arms. He was left with just enough play to sit on Sam's lap or hover inches above with bent knees and strained arms, and at first he leaned out as far as he could, knees knocked inward in a failing attempt at modesty. Demons hissed and cackled variously, made lewd gestures or stared hungrily, and Castiel's face began to blotch pink, flushed with humiliation.

Sam ran his hand down the fresh marks on his back, and Castiel jerked weakly. Dean rearranged himself in his pants, looped Castiel's belt without thinking into a slide noose. It was all he had left. He wasn't quite sure he was ready to part with it.

Sam made some motions that were hard to make out exactly, but they made Castiel lurch comically out and lose his balance and wind up falling into Sam's lap, only to jerk upright and away again. Dean's best guess was that Sam was twisting wet fingers up inside of the angel, digging his way inside of his secret untouched places. Now and then long fingers would peek out between the angel's legs, cupping his balls, squeezing and tickling, and Castiel would grumble indignant but increasingly incoherent.

Dean reluctantly gave up the belt to a demon who wanted to choke themselves with it while they watched and masturbated, then slipped back into the shadows to watch, too.

The groaning and laughter in the crowd died to a hush when Sam's arms slipped around Castiel's middle, drawing him inexorably down, down into his lap, toward his waiting cock. 

Dean watched the angel's face, saw the moment he was breached and his virginity and modesty were taken from him by the King of Hell, under the eyes of a hundred hungry demons. Watched pale eyes fix on an empty point in the darkness beyond while his face cracked into shock and devastation and pain.

Dean sank back against a rock wall drinking it in, palmed his dick through his pants and hissed. 

He heard groans around him, old demons crooning _Sodom and Gomorrah,_ finally seeing the rape of the angel some thousands of years later, but just as beautiful as they'd imagined.

One of Sam's hands drifted up, palm flat over Castiel's heart, fingertips just brushing up against the sigils on his collarbone, while the other slid down, circled his flaccid cock to stroke it, or to pull to move him where Sam wanted, when Sam wanted. It stayed limp, but Dean could see Sam rock up into Castiel, and when he rocked back, Castiel lifted away a bit, chasing Sam's grip when it wouldn't relent.

Castiel's eyes closed, mortified, mouth hanging open in pained shock.

Sam drove himself up inside while he crushed the angel back down into him, and a choked sob cut through the murmur, sharp and hoarse.

Dean dug in his pants for his cock. He wasn't the only one; various demons were falling on one another for a quick, rough fuck, or masturbating alone. He wondered how much it would take for it to turn into an orgy.

Not much, he thought. 

Sam didn't drag it out too long; there were other things to do in a day, and Dean guessed he'd made the impression he wanted to. After a few more rocky thrusts where he forced Castiel to ride his cock, Sam shifted to grip him by the hips and took over, pounding into him smooth and fast. When he bit the angel's neck, just below the collar, Dean came in his hand, and from the look of dismay on Castiel's face, Sam had come too.

It took awhile for the general uproar to die down. Sam took a few moments to compose himself before rummaging beneath the angel to get himself decent, then undid just the wrist cuffs from the throne. The angel sank down to his knees, still spread wide by the way his ankles were bound, but he huddled down over his lap, head hung low, to hide more of his body. He didn't lift his eyes again for the rest of the day.

Dean slowly made his way back through the crowd and up the mound of skulls to take his customary place. 

When he got to Sam's side, Dean saw the private view Sam had arranged: the slope of the hill meant Castiel's hips were higher than the rest of him, and his spread legs gave him no modesty from above; the angel's hole was on full display from here, puffy and red and oozing with Sam's cum.

In between petitions, Sam reached down to stroke Castiel's hip, making him flinch, and spoke very quietly. "If you're very good for the rest of the day, I might even ask my brother to be gentle with you tonight."

He glanced up at Dean and winked.

Dean smirked. Sam might ask. Didn't mean he'd mean it.

***

Instead of the rack or the pit, that night they led Castiel, crawling, to their chambers. Castiel tried twice to rise and walk hunched, but Dean promptly knocked him back to the ground when he did. He stopped trying.

Sam sat with the angel's face drawn up close between his legs, leash taut, while Dean mounted him from behind on his knees. Dean gripped a fistful of dark hair in one hand to keep Castiel's face turned up for his King to see; it only seemed fair after Dean had gotten to watch him crack open on Sam's cock earlier.

Sam looked into Castiel's face while Dean fucked him like he'd looked at ancient tomes and lore books before, a mix of wonder and appraisal and professional curiosity. He cupped the angel's cheek and Dean thought he might have brushed a tear away with his thumb.

"You're doing so well," Sam said, and Dean honestly wasn't sure if he was praising or mocking.

There was a choked sound from Castiel. Maybe he couldn't tell either.

Sam's smile was too sweet; indulgent. Dean looked away. Something ugly bubbled up inside of him.

He tightened his hand in Castiel's hair and began to piston his hips harder, meaner. He gripped a hip with his free hand for leverage, and slammed brutal until Castiel finally let out a sound of pain, croaked and hoarse and so pitiful it made Dean's insides go liquid and hot. 

One of Sam's hands slid into Dean's hair and he came.

When Dean slid out, a little dizzy and high, Sam loosed the leash and Castiel slumped down to the ground.

They didn't need to sleep in Hell, not really, but there was still something satisfying about letting everything drain away, and Sam warded over the doorway before tugging Dean into his bed, a rare earthly indulgence in this place of stone and earth and sulfur and fire. Dean asked about the wisdom of leaving their pet untethered for the night with a glance, and Sam eyed the motionless body on the floor before nodding approval. A calculated risk.

Wasn't like he could do them any serious damage, Dean supposed. Maybe Sam was testing him; letting him have enough rope to hang himself with. 

Dean shrugged off his clothes and climbed into the soft sheets, tangled his limbs with his brother's like they hadn't since they were children stuck sharing a stiff motel bed or the backseat of a car. They made out like teenagers in the dark, Dean biting and possessive, needy and wanting, and Sam bled patience, reassuring him with soft sounds and bruises and a deep fuck, arm wrapped so tight around Dean's throat he thought he'd pass out on Sam's cock. Dean fell asleep on his chest, still dripping with sweat and cum.

His sleep was blissfully black and dreamless.

He woke up with the angel straddling his chest, the chain of his leash crushing Dean's throat. Breathing was more or less optional here, too, but his lungs still burned with the lack of air and his throat screamed murder. Castiel's bared teeth and his wild eyes glinted in the dim, and his expression was full of fire and brimstone.

Dean bucked and struggled, started to reel Castiel in by the chain, but before he could get him close enough to slug, Sam hurled the angel across the room with a flick of his hand. He landed hard with a crash and a rattle of chains.

Sam's eyes were glowing yellow in the dark like a cat's, slitted and angry.

"And you were doing so well," he muttered.

Dean coughed and rubbed his neck, mostly ignoring his erection bobbing to life. He wasn't entirely sure if it was related to Sam's violence or to being throttled; he decided he'd wait to explore that another time. For now, Sam (who had slipped on a pair of pants along the way) was dragging the struggling angel out of the room by the chain, and Dean pulled on his pants to follow.

In a crater that sat just in view of the mound of skulls there was a low slab. Black chains lay coiled like serpents across and around it, and the ground was stained dark with ichor and blood. Sam had gathered it had been anything from a fighting pit to a sacrificial altar to a very public place to fuck but Dean had never seen it in use since he'd been a citizen of Hell.

As they chained a bucking and struggling Castiel down to the slab, Dean reflected this seemed like as good a way to use it as any.

When they were finished, Castiel was bound on his knees, bent in a low bow, ankles and wrists stretched taut to the corners of the slab. The chains coiling around his waist kept his hips close to his feet, his ass exposed at one end of the slab. A ring of iron was angled in between the angel's teeth, forcing his mouth open wide, and strapped to his head like a bridle. More chains wound around him for weight, and anchored into the earth.

Sam let a crowd of curious demons assemble while he carved another set of runes below the columns down Castiel's back, framing his tailbone. Dean thought it was a bit like pointing a bright red arrow at the angel's exposed hole.

Sam pocketed his pen-knife and coolly said to the assembled: "Leave him alive."

Then he left.

Dean felt a thrill down his spine and didn't want to leave, but wanted to abandon Sam even less. 

Unwatched, he didn't trust the demons not to tear Castiel limb from limb, but he wasn't going to question the King publicly. When they were back in their chambers, though, he blurted, "Think they'll listen?"

Sam smiled faintly, taking his time now in preparing to go back to the throne. "I put a little spell on the altar. He should be relatively safe and whole." After a moment of reflection, he amended, "Well. Nothing I can't fix, anyway."

Dean groaned, full up with lust and want, and crowded Sam back onto the bed.

***

Castiel had been unsupervised on the altar for almost an hour when Sam and Dean climbed the mound of skulls. The crowd of milling petitioners and watchers was significantly smaller today, what with the alternative entertainment available so near. Sam didn't show any sign he was paying attention to the activities going on in the crater, but Dean was sure he knew full well what was happening.

The angel was still alive and whole, as far as Dean could tell from here, though he was mounted from both ends by eldritch monstrosities, winged and scaled and scattered with bony protrusions--old demons not bothering to hold a human shape. They forced twisting phalluses into the comparatively tiny body between them, now painted with blood and sweat and mud, while more bit and pinched and scratched their prey, left marks with claws and teeth or ground up against him. Sodom and Gomorrah indeed.

Sam managed to take care of the business of the day, but Dean heard none of it. Watching the swarms overwhelming Castiel had him aching to rut and tear, to cut and to bleed. He kept slipping the handle of his machete through his fist like it were his cock, gripping and wanting.

He didn't know how many hours passed while Sam let the lesson be learned. Sam's fingers in his hair felt like they woke him from a dream. "Let's go rescue him," he murmured, and for all his restraint, Dean could hear the hunger in Sam's voice, too.

Most of the demons behaved, parting for the King as soon as he strode into the crater. One made the mistake of pushing back, of trying to hold onto Castiel's haunches while it thrust a terrible forked tongue up inside, but Sam made quick work of it, tearing its neck with his teeth and gulping before it crumbled away.

The rest scattered. Sam with his chin and neck running with fresh blood was a terror to behold, somehow grander and more terrible each time, thrumming with power.

Dean wanted to lick him clean. The angel, too, even covered in filth.

Castiel was barely conscious and couldn't or wouldn't move. They took their time with the chains, unwinding them carefully where they'd dug marks into his flesh or torn his skin. They unlocked the shackles and left them behind, until Castiel was naked except for the mess and the golden collar and chain.

"Did they screw up your runes?" Dean asked, brushing fingers over fresh claw marks that cut through some of Sam's careful knife work. Castiel's skin twitched under his fingers like the hide of a skittish horse.

Dean imagined riding him wild until he was broken in. Though maybe the hordes had achieved that, today. He supposed he'd have to wait and find out.

"The wounds will heal," Sam said, easily, scooping the angel up into his arms bridal style. "I can always recarve the sigils."

That drew a faint whimper.

Sam nodded his head toward a darkened arch of rock, and Dean followed him into the space that opened up around him; Sam could fold hellspace like a map, cutting shortcuts through shadows to places Dean didn't know existed.

Places of peace were rare, here, but when they emerged from the blackness they were in a small cave with a pond of steaming water, glowing from within. It reeked of sulfur, but that wasn't unusual in Hell. 

Sam laid Castiel on the rock and began to strip, glancing at Dean to have him do the same. Castiel's head lolled weakly to the side and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but he otherwise lay motionless. Soon they were all naked, and Sam slipped carefully into the clear water before gathering the angel from the ledge beside it.

Dean sat on the edge, dangling his feet in. It was just shy of scalding. He remembered faintly the rare motel with a jacuzzi, decades ago and blurry in his memory, now; soaking in the foaming heat with strangers he'd picked up in town, making out or screwing in the dark if they thought they could get away with it.

He eyed Sam and Castiel, and slipped into the water.

Castiel groaned, pained, when the water hit his ass and the gouges left over his ribs, and Dean was drawn to the sound. Castiel's mouth was almost as bloody as Sam's, and Dean imagined how it had happened, pictured him being struck across the face, his tongue bitten, his mouth stretched so wide and filled so full his lips bled.

Sam sank to sit on a slope at one edge of the spring and covered them both in water to the neck before rearranging his burden, laying Castiel's head against his shoulder, tilted towards Dean. Sam looked to Dean, too, and Dean thought he looked like he was simmering inside. He lifted his eyebrows, a silent offer.

Dean accepted.

He came close, straddling them both awkwardly, and looked between their bottom lips, both painted red. He felt dizzy with the choice. He kissed Sam, first, all heat and gratitude, sucking his lip in and nipping it with his teeth, then Castiel, who moaned weakly while Dean licked the electric blood from his mouth and chin.

In that moment he wanted to fuck them both so bad he felt twisted in two.

"Castiel," Sam said tenderly, "you don't want to have another day like today, do you?"

Dean took the cue and held back the urge to bite, ran his fingers through the angel's dark hair instead. Didn't even pull.

"You don't have to," Sam went on, gently, and stroked his thumb over a gouge below Castiel's eye, a soft glow promising magic was healing the damage beneath. Castiel's breathing stuttered then settled, a little easier and deeper than it had been.

Sam kissed his unresistant mouth, then Dean did the same. Soft. Tender.

"You just have to be good, angel," he said, pleading, like it had hurt him to leave Castiel to his fate today. "Be mine and behave, and I won't let anyone touch you but my brother and I."

Dean slid his arms around them both, and Sam pulled him in close, grip tight and possessive.

Castiel's head lolled again, but his eyes were fluttering, his mouth working uncertainly.

"Say 'yes,'" Sam said soft, silky as a serpent. Dean scraped his teeth over Sam's jaw, licked blood from his chin, and Sam breathed out hot, digging his nails into Dean's side. Dean smirked, and repeated the kiss with Castiel, but softer, laving over his jaw and throat like a dog.

Castiel looked so full of pain, so torn in anguish, that Dean wanted to swallow him whole. Sam tipped their foreheads together, his mouth open and eyes half-closed, like he was trying to breathe in Castiel's torment deeper.

"Say 'yes,'" he repeated, still softer.

Castiel did. 

Weak as a kitten, so softly it almost wasn't, he whispered "yes," and Sam drew a shaking breath, sucking in satisfaction and thrill. He tipped his mouth to Castiel's and kissed him. 

Sam slid Castiel into Dean's arms and began to run his fingers, glowing faintly, over the gouges in Castiel's sides, the ugly bruises, the torn places. He kissed the angel again and again as he did, slow and easy, until Castiel began to move his mouth a little too, clumsy and face full of loathing and terror, but obedient.

"My good little angel," Sam sighed, and it sounded full of perverse satisfaction.

There were silent tears cutting tracks through the dirt on Castiel's cheeks while they washed him, slowly and carefully, in the stinging water. Sam and Dean took turns kissing his mouth and his body and one another and one another's bodies, tonguing and suckling and nipping blindly.

Castiel twitched weakly when Sam and Dean each slid fingers inside of his hole, loose and damaged from the endless stream of demons, but there was no real fight left in him. When the muscle contracted sharply, crushing their fingers together, Dean guessed Sam must have healed with them still inside, repaired the tears but left him forced open, stretched on four or five fingers. Castiel let out a choked little cry and gasped for air while Sam shushed him gently like an animal.

"I know it hurts," he said gently, apologetically, even while he twisted his fingers inside against Dean's, unrelenting. Castiel's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, and Dean sucked hungry marks onto his throat like he could swallow up the pain and helplessness through his skin. 

When Castiel's breathing began to settle, Dean wedged another finger inside of him. He didn't want that gasping to end, didn't want to let the angel down from the cusp of just-too-much, and Castiel obliged with a raspy groan of pain, hands reaching out blindly and weakly. Sam snuck Dean a private nod, smiling faint.

Dean cradled Castiel afloat with his free arm, and Sam let his free hand drift over each of their cocks in turn. Dean's was already violently hard and needed no encouragement, only jutted his hips toward Sam's hand. But Castiel's breath guttered when Sam stroked him.

"This will help," Sam said kindly, and even as another finger slid into Castiel's hole, pushing him too open, too wide, he circled Castiel's cock and tugged, urging the reluctant flesh to life, cupping and cradling his balls.

Castiel tried to speak--Dean suspected he was trying to form a "no"--but couldn't manage. Only little "nn"s and whimpers.

Dean drank them in.

Castiel's cock was still floating limp in the water when Sam locked eyes with Dean significantly and began to slide his fingers out. Dean followed his cue, leaving one hooked hard against the elastic muscle trying to rebound. When he felt Sam's cock bumping up against his knuckles, he nudged it into place.

He wondered about leaving the finger there, feeling it from the inside while Sam fucked the angel. But once Sam was seated deep inside, Dean felt the space they had made with so many fingers, the space still left after Sam's cock was in deep. Saw Sam's expectant look. Waiting.

Dean's blood ran hotter than the sulfur spring.

_Oh._

Dean couldn't crawl inside fast enough. It was awkward and tight, so tight, too tight, but he nudged the head of his cock between Sam and his finger. He pulled his hand away and his cock slid in a few inches, filling the space it had left. The angel made a sound like creaking, like a hinge threatening to buckle, mouth and eyes wide and unseeing.

Dean scrubbed his fingers against his hip under the water to clean them, then hooked them into Castiel's mouth, tugged his jaw and pressed down against his tongue for leverage to drive his cock further inside. 

When he was seated fully, he and Sam both sighed as one.

It was too much and it hurt and it thrilled and it was perfect.

Everything was tightness, a hot vise around him; he could feel two heartbeats against his cock.

Dean realized in that moment these two might have the only two real, flesh and blood hearts in the kingdom; Sam had come down whole and almost human, and the angel was wearing the flesh of a man. The urge to pull both hearts out, to eat the beating flesh, came sudden and strong, but he mashed it down. He wanted them alive, as alive as this place could let them be. They could bleed real blood. They were perfect, the both of them, together and his.

Sam arranged them gently, laying Castiel back against Dean's chest and wrapping Castiel's legs loosely around himself. Castiel's body was hot against Dean, rough with the fine lines of scabs and scars, slick with sweat and steam. Sam shepherded Dean back against the slope of the pool, then braced his palms on either side of him on the ledge behind, crowding them, caging them in with his arms. Dean felt a flutter in his chest to see the gold eyes trained on them while they were pinned this way, felt the delicious bubble of fear at the danger he posed, powerful and wanting.

And then Sam _moved_ and it was like nothing Dean had ever felt before. All the blinding heat and tightness, but then there was the slick slide and swell against his cock, too, the head of Sam's rubbing under and over the head of his, leaving him dizzy and digging his fingers hard into Sam's side with one hand, Castiel's mouth with the other. Castiel keened, and his abused muscles tried to contract, and both Sam and Dean hissed sharp at the grip, froze still until the spasm settled.

Sam gently tugged Dean's fingers from Castiel's mouth, slid his own tongue in instead. One hand slipped between their bellies, and over Castiel's shoulder Dean could see that Sam was stroking Castiel's cock again, trying to rouse it in spite of the pain and terror and confusion the angel must have felt.

He held still inside, only their out of joint pulses making the pressure waver faintly.

"Relax, Castiel. Let us take care of you," Sam murmured, like forcing both their cocks inside of his battered body was for the angel's benefit. Dean almost groaned. "You're so perfect like this," Sam added sweetly, suckling Castiel's lip, kissing his jaw, his throat above the golden collar. His hand never stopped on Castiel's cock. "Made for it. My angel."

Castiel sucked a breath like a sob, and his fingers, floating loose in the water, curled, like they were trying to find something to grip. Dean and Sam each took one of his hands in the same moment, folding fingers together with their shared prey, to soothe him or to trap him. 

Castiel closed his eyes suddenly, his face flushing pink. Sam had finally succeeded in waking his cock and the mortification rolled off of him in waves. Dean mouthed at his ear, his temple.

"There," Sam whispered against his jaw, between kisses. "I knew you'd like this." He gave Castiel's cock a few more easy tugs, until it was fat with blood, head bobbing for the bubbly surface of the pool. Then he began to rock slowly, achingly slowly, inside of him again.

Dean groaned, let his eyes roll up into his skull. It was torture. It was divine.

Sam ground in and out a little further each time, rubbing up and down Dean's length and Castiel's insides. Dean felt like they were on the verge of a dam break, like Sam was building slowly toward some terrible force, some inescapable power, that this tenderness was just him building steam in disguise.

He'd felt Sam unleashed, before. Sam was a tornado when he fucked, unstoppable and brutal and perfect. The anticipation was dizzying. He let his hand slip from Sam's ribs to wrap around Castiel's belly; Dean could play tender, too, but he was thinking ahead to when Sam would plow them through the rock, to holding Castiel fixed to absorb the damage.

Sam did not disappoint. He built momentum like a freight train, his rhythm steady but taking him out further and in deeper with each roll, until Dean had to grip Castiel tight to keep him from being driven up out of the water. Castiel tried to form words again, "nn-nuh, nuh," but Sam would land hard against his deepest places and the sound would crack into sharp yelps, helpless and broken open. 

Sam sliding wild against him through the impossible grip of the overwrought angel would be plenty to drive him to come, but Dean rolled his hips at odd moments just to feel it, or to make Castiel twitch in his arms. He drank in the suffering and the ache, the brutality and degradation, the soft mouth of the angel and the wicked glimmer in his brother's eyes, and felt drunk on it, overfull with lust and thrill. Even as he rocked hard enough to hurt, Sam kept working Castiel's cock, wouldn't let it sink, wouldn't let him drift out into mindless pain, and now and then the muscles in Castiel's abdomen would tighten under Dean's arm. Dean was too high, gave in to the want and sank his teeth into Castiel's skin just below the collar, and Sam responded by biting hard into Dean's neck. Sam drew blood and drank, and Dean came with his neck singing pain and his mouth tingling electric with angel blood.

Dean got more and more oversensitive but stayed inside, let Sam rub his nerves raw, even as the way went smoother around his shrinking cock and through the slick of his cum. Sam murmured encouragement to him, told him how good he was being, told him to stay right there where he was while it hurt, and Dean almost choked on the ache and the perverse delight. He shuddered, then jerked and twitched as Sam used his cum for lube to go harder and meaner, held on tighter as the angel did the same, bucking against his grip.

"Come on, angel," Sam panted, fist making the water splash wild while he pumped Castiel's cock, "you can come for me, can't you? Want you to..." He still sounded almost calm, almost steady, though his hair was slicked to his face and neck with sweat, and his rhythm was threatening to break.

Castiel's head tilted a little side to side, the "no" he couldn't seem to manage with his mouth, and Sam huffed disapproval. Dean wasn't sure exactly what he did, then, but there was a faint current in the water, a zap that crawled inside his skin, and Castiel came onto his own chest, choking, mouth open in a silent cry. Sam grunted with the force of his thrusts, then, his grip still firm on Castiel's twitching cock.

 _You don't get to say no,_ Dean thought, skin feeling like it was trying to crawl off his bones with the agony of overstimulation as Sam kept pounding and Castiel twitched and squeezed around them. _Sam will make it yes whether you want it to be or not._ Castiel writhed in his grip, trying weakly to get away from the onslaught of Sam's cock and hand and maybe magic, too. But it would end when Sam was done, and not before. Dean would help make sure of that, even if it felt like he'd go mad from the raw nerves first.

He'd had worse, after all. Raw nerves and the rack were much the same.

Sam held out just a little longer--Dean thought probably just for sheer spite--before shouting wordless, hips jerking unevenly. He stayed inside after he came, wrapping his arms around Castiel and Dean both, clutching them to his chest, while his cock twitched and softened inside and he caught his breath.

Dean drifted off in the softness of his nerves settling and the heat of the pool getting into his bones, but woke to Sam licking his neck and Castiel's clean of blood. They'd all slipped apart, and the water was murky below, now, with blood and cum and dirt, but it was still clean enough, and Sam dipped Castiel under the water like it was a baptism, covering his mouth and his nose for him while he held him below to rinse away the stains of the day.

He held him under longer than was strictly necessary, and Dean's tired cock tried to twitch to life, but Sam let him up again gasping before too long. Castiel coughed and trembled, but there were no growls, no bared teeth, no angry pronouncements.

Dean tentatively decided that the day had been a success.

They'd see how well it took, see whether he backslid or if they could find some uncrossable line that would make him fight again, but for the moment, their angel was broken in, tame enough.

He was _theirs._

Sam started to climb out of the pool, but Dean caught his elbow, pulled him in close. He mumbled by Sam's ear, "Still got that little scalpel of yours?"

Sam looked at him curious, and when he saw what was in Dean's head, his mouth went slack, his usually calm face overcome with bliss. He looked angelic, to Dean. Heavenly and holy and perfect. He nodded and gestured vaguely to the pile of clothes, and Dean quietly fished the knife out of Sam's pocket.

Castiel mumbled incoherently when Sam turned him so his back lay against Sam's chest, wrapping his arms around Castiel in something between a hug and a straight jacket. Dean crouched in the water, ran his fingers over the front of Castiel's right hip, just aside of his groin and just below the bone.

Dean could carve the alphabet into flesh in precise cursive now if he chose, but this he did in straight, angular marks like a child carving a tree with a pocket knife. When he finished, he traded places with Sam, who did the same while Castiel hissed at the new pain on top of all the other pain of the day but didn't fight to get away.

"You're ours now, angel," Sam said after he licked over the fresh wounds. S.W. and D.W.

"Ours," Dean agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time putting explicit Sastiel and all-legs-of-trio Wincestiel and DP on screen. It was supposed to be trashy iddy and jump in full swing but then it went and backtracked all the way to Dean going to Hell.


End file.
